


Burn

by HannahLydia



Series: OC Content [2]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Bittersweet, Emotionally constipated bandit realises he fucked up, F/M, Feelings Realization, Gen, Implied Rival CEOs, October Prompt Challenge, Original Character(s), Post-Break Up, Referenced Rebound Relationship, Regret, implied Rhack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26838460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahLydia/pseuds/HannahLydia
Summary: Archer is on a mission to torch everything in his possession that reminds him of Iris. When he starts to find excuses and drinks himself into a stupor, however, he begins to realise he's not as unfazed by their break-up as he first thought.Day 4: 'Regret' prompt for OCtober 2020.
Relationships: Iris/Archer (OCs)
Series: OC Content [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942084





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> More OCtober fun! This time I'm focusing on bandit bad boy, [Archer](https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1tItwTP-y3ZF3BiLRN7DSbx91VkDBzBLbO8njEdhPMGI/edit?usp=sharing) and his relationship with [Iris](https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1CUK9lxe3aYjJoBo5EsKaeYT-1wh3di79YFGIaxiEnGo/edit?usp=sharing).  
> I haven't been able to finish these prompts on the days that they're due so the posting schedule for these may be a bit all over the place, but so help me, I'm gonna get through them one way or another, even if it takes me months!  
> This short fic is actually set prior to "The Offer" and the chronology will be a bit hazy with these prompts, so I'll have to do a running order at some point. I'll add it in once I get through enough of the prompts! 
> 
> Borderlands and all it's associated lore and characters © Gearbox and 2K.  
> Iris and Archer belong to [myself](https://twitter.com/hannahdewitt77) and [Icarus](https://twitter.com/IcarusPrince) / [TeaBeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaBeast/pseuds/TeaBeast).

The fire had been burning now for over an hour. Confined to an oil barrel he’d picked up from The Dust, Archer had been biding his time, collating everything he wanted to see go up in smoke whilst the flames gorged themselves on kindling and grew to a steady blaze. He then started small, feeding in some clothes that were beyond rescue and some threadbare linen, but when he turned to the pile of things he associated with _her_ he hesitated.  
The objects had been arranged around an old, beat-up rocking chair, one he intended to sit in while he watched them burn. A can of beer was sat within reach, as was a flagon of moonshine. Staring at them all now, he couldn’t quite believe how much he’d amassed considering they’d only been fooling around for half a year.

Her knit jumper was draped over the backrest of the chair, and after a moment’s reluctance it was the first thing he came to pick up. It was softer than anything he owned, to the point that he’d even considered sleeping with the damn thing. Unlike his clothes, which were worn or patched, this was as good as new. Hell, it had probably been its first outing when she’d forgotten it the very last time they’d hooked up. 

She’d looked so ridiculous, turning up at his shack in no more than a white, long-sleeved bodysuit, tailored trousers and the jumper draped over her arm. 

> _“The hell is that?”  
> _ _“You-- said to dress for the cold?”  
> _ _“Yeahhh… see, I didn’t mean a light_ **_breeze_ ** _, princess,”_

And yet, he’d figured she’d arrive inappropriately dressed, which is exactly why he’d had an expedition-quality parka already set aside for her. A blindfold and a Fast Travel station later, and he’d taken her to the Windshear Waste. At least... it _had_ been a waste when he was a teenager, right up until Pandora’s polar ice cap had been occupied and gentrified by Hyperion. Now it was littered with an ice hotel, stargazing domes and artificial hot springs, with barely a bullymong in sight. It might’ve been cheap, taking an heiress to a resort her own father owned, but Iris had been as entranced as any tourist. She’d gushed about how he’d been able to afford the cosy two-person dome they were to stay the night in, when in reality he’d simply picked the lock. Despite the questionable procurement of their lodgings, it had been the most romantic thing he’d ever done for a girl. With their own glass bubble beneath the stars, a bottle of champagne and a roaring fire, they’d entwined beneath silks and layers of furs, making love to the sound of Digby Vermouth with the aurora borealis twisting above their heads. It was when he’d finally peeled that ridiculous jumper off of her that she’d blushed and whispered “ _I love you_ ” for the very first time. And those three little words? They’d terrified him more than anything ever had. 

… It still smelt like her.  
Unaware that he’d been holding the garment up to his face, Archer lowered it with an indignant scowl, angry with himself for being so sentimental. The word hadn’t even been in his _vocabulary_ before all this. 

Raising his chin with feigned indifference, he stalked towards the bonfire, primed ready to toss the balled-up jumper inside.   
_What the hell are you doing?_ His voice of reason needled, stopping him in his tracks. _Don’t you think maybe this god-damn sweater could be worth more than your last job?_ **_Sell_ ** _it, you idiot.  
_ His frown deepened, beginning to turn the jumper over and over in his hands. While he didn’t doubt he’d be able to shift it pretty quickly at the next Three Horns Hawkers Market, he felt like he was making excuses. Surely to have it sitting around a while longer would defeat the purpose of this exercise, right? Pausing beside the fire, Archer held the jumper to him for a moment longer before surrendering, returning the garment to safety. Although that was the first item to be spared the blaze, he didn’t intend to make it a habit. Determined, he wasted no time dispatching the Hyperion branded hard-hat he’d pilfered as a trophy. The damn thing had just been a pointless memento he’d taken from her work site at Prosperity Junction; in truth, he didn’t know why he’d held onto it for so long, considering he’d only nabbed it to get her attention.  
 _Target practise_ , he reminded himself, watching as the decal began to blister and peel before the hat itself warped with the heat. _You were gonna use it for target practise._ Except… weirdly enough, he never had. 

Returning to the pile, he quickly talked himself out of torching the high thread-count sheets Iris had bought for whenever she stayed the night. Telling himself he’d christen them with some other woman instead, he moved onto the next item only to scowl in frustration. No, he refused to break down and toss out the rotisserie oven she’d bought for him; he was making good use of it.  
 _But I didn’t want her_ ** _charity_** , his mind prompted bitterly, trying to find any reason to hate her. Harsh, considering he wasn’t exactly the wronged party in all this. While, yes, he hadn’t wanted her pity or her handouts, he justified it by considering she had weeded money out of Hyperion on his behalf. _Any_ dollar that was in his pocket instead of Jack’s was a prize unto itself. Besides, how else was he going to spit-roast a rakk?

As the afternoon sun started to couple with the heat rolling off of the bonfire, Archer found himself beginning to sweat. Wiping his brow with the back of his hand and dabbing his face with an oil-stained rag, it soon occurred to him that there were now three things he hadn’t gotten rid of as intended.  
 _Shit_ . What was this? This shouldn’t have been difficult, it was burning evidence more than anything else!   
To that end, he threw one of her notes in the fire as if it meant nothing, even wrinkling his nose as it went. No sooner had it been reduced to a pile of embers than he found himself suffering from a sudden bout of nausea. Even so, he fed in the second, and the third, until he had to finally crack open his can of beer and down it in one hit. 

Now the only objects left to dispose of were the few photographs he had of her. One was just a clipping from an article, staged and formal, and he barely twitched when it went in. She hardly looked like herself in the image; airbrushed, her smattering of freckles doctored out, wearing a uniform with a forced ‘air hostess’ smile. The instant-film photos, on the other hand? His hand froze above the bonfire, clutching hold of them in a deathlike grip.   
_So… what are you waiting for? Toss ‘em in.  
_ But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Glancing down at the first photo, Archer’s gut twisted. It was a candid, one he’d snapped when he’d caught her leaving work one day. She was dressed as impractically for Pandora as ever, her hand up to her head and fixing her chestnut hair. She looked a little flushed, barely looking at the camera with a nonplussed but warm expression on her face. At the time he’d simply taken it as proof that they were seeing one another - a photograph that had done the rounds amongst his mercenary buddies as they exchanged money and slapped him on the back and talked about how _ballsy_ he was for boning Handsome Jack’s daughter. It had been the evidence he’d needed to wipe the cynical looks off their faces; they’d all said she was untouchable, but had _all_ bought him a drink in the end. 

Archer let the photo sail from his grip. As soon as it was gone, a tightening sensation began to seize hold of him, working its way up from his stomach only to clutch at his chest and throat. He must have gotten too close to the fire, because his eyes had started to burn. Taking a step back, he regarded the last photo with furrowed eyebrows and a hard frown. This picture was a self-portrait, just a casual one she’d taken on her ECHO. It occurred to him just how many she’d sent him digitally too, making a mental note to delete them when he was drunk enough. Unlike some of her more _suggestive_ photos, this one was not only decent, it was simple. Just Iris, tilting her head and smiling that smile she only had for him.

Thrusting his hand out over the bonfire, Archer held it there until his skin began to burn and the edges of the photograph curled. He watched stoically as it began to catch alight in one of the bottom-most corners, only for his ribcage to become as a vice. Releasing a sound like a pained growl, he made a snap decision to pull it back towards him and pinch out the small flame between his fingers. 

Why? Why was this so _hard?!_ He had been with dozens of women and none of them had ever mattered before. Why, of all of them, was Iris any different? She was spoilt, naive, oftentimes contentious and related to the most hated man in the galaxy. She had never known hardship, never questioned her father’s dictatorship and treated Pandora like some quaint renovation project. Besides, what kind of woman wore camisoles and sandals on a planet infested with the most dangerous wildlife this side of the solar system? A clueless heiress who had never had to fight for anything in her damn life, that’s who. And what was more, while Archer didn’t give a shit about ‘leagues’, she was way, _way_ out of his. The idea that they could have had anything more than a steamy affair was laughable. 

Throwing himself down into his chair, Archer kept the photograph firmly in his grip while reaching for the moonshine with his free hand. He started to drink, glaring at the bonfire as if in accusation.   
Where had it all gone so wrong? He’d known from the start that this was going to happen and everything had gone almost exactly to plan, right up until Iris had told him she loved him.   
_“_ And didn’t I tell her not to!?” He snapped, unaware he’d said it aloud as he kicked the nearby rotisserie with enough force to dent the metal. _I told her what we had! She_ **_knew_ ** _it was just supposed to be a bit o’ fun!  
_ And yet she had been his longest relationship. The only woman he’d ever kissed while _meaning_ it. He had broken his rules of survival for her, because she was high profile and he was a mercenary who always, _always_ disappeared after playing with fire. He’d even brought her to his home and all of his haunts, like some kind of amateur who didn’t know how to cover his tracks. 

_So what? How else was I supposed to gain her trust? I couldn’t just waltz into Old Haven without her, I needed_ _access. So, I screwed up. I’ve bounced back before. At the end of it all, she was just a god-damn_ ** _mark_** _.  
_ But if that was really the case, why was he drinking so heavily and clutching onto her photo hard enough to leave the indentation of his thumb? Why could he still picture the constellation of freckles across her nose, or the way in which she nervously ran her hand through her hair? Why did the curl of her lips make his body ache? He yearned for her touch as if he were homesick - half-imagined her sidling up behind him now and draping her arm over his shoulder while squeezing the other, nosing the side of his face and smiling against his skin. 

Archer chugged the alcohol until there was nothing left, hurling the empty bottle to the dirt with a roar.  
He’d get over it. Not that he’d ever had to ‘get over’ a woman before, but he _would_ . He was tougher than this, he’d never needed anyone before now. What he _needed_ was to survive. His Atlas haul would feed him for a year, maybe even pay for a place in Overlook given that he’d need to relocate shortly. After all, he couldn’t trust that Iris hadn’t run to her daddies now that things had come to a head. He’d have Hyperion and Atlas on his tail within a week.  
 _Not to mention that connivin’ pretty boy of hers,_ Archer reminded himself, and a cold jealousy washed over him. 

Ash wasn’t nearly as concerning as any corporate threat - it was the equivalent of worrying about being hit by a fly instead of a truck - but Archer wasn’t _concerned_ . He was just… grinding his teeth, recalling the smug look on his face when the annoying shit had caught him red-handed.   
It felt like time had stopped when Ash had found him mid-heist, putting his arm around Iris - _his_ Iris - as she stared at him like--  
\-- like he was dead to her.  
 _… her lips went blue, remember? Right before she slapped you into next week._

Kneading his forehead, Archer closed his eyes against the sun and tried desperately to squash down the memory. If he had to relive that haunted look in her eyes one more time, it just might drive him mad.   
Rather than shoulder the blame that was due, it was much easier to focus his anger on Ash. He was loving this, no doubt. Bet he couldn’t _wait_ to muscle in and pick up the pieces - he’d practically been circling like a vulture the entirety of their relationship. Archer had never felt threatened by him before but now that Iris was ‘unattached’ it wasn’t too hard to imagine that Ash was doing his darndest to worm his way out of the friendzone. 

Tensing his jaw, Archer attempted to blot out the scenarios his imagination and memory alike were pushing forth. Try as he might, the botched Atlas heist kept rising to the forefront of his mind, choosing to focus on the image of Ash standing like an attack-dog at Iris’ side, and how the protective hand at her waist had been so sure, so familiar. It wasn’t a stretch to picture that hand touching her in all the same ways he had.   
_Christ…_ The drink was making him emotional rather than numb. Archer felt tired all of a sudden, frustrated that the deadening warmth he associated with drinking hadn’t spread throughout his body. He had never been a miserable drunk; no matter the day he’d had it had always managed to take the edge off before. This? This was something that didn’t want to be buried, something that _wanted_ to plague him. 

If he hadn't been caught, Iris wouldn’t have left him. If he hadn’t decided to self-destruct and go through with his shitty plan, she’d still be here now. In love with him. Not crying on Ash’s shoulder and playing right into his hands.   
_I never_ **_wanted_ ** _her to love me.  
_ But that wasn’t true. Not anymore. 

Guilt weighed heavy in his chest like a stone.When the epiphany struck, it knifed through him so suddenly that it stole the air from his lungs. He’d _fallen in love with her_ . He’d never been in love with _anyone_ and yet he had fallen for Iris Strongfork.   
_And you blew it, genius.  
_ Pinching the bridge of his nose hard enough to hurt, Archer released a breath like a hiss. There was no undoing what he’d done. He had used her, strung her along until he could rob her family, and worst of all? He’d told her she meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Raising the one remaining photograph to eye-level, he traced Iris’ face with his fingertip. The alcohol was beginning to affect his vision, the smoke from the bonfire raking the length of his throat, but still he remained, dark eyes focused on that smile he missed more than reason.   
_I can bounce back._ He told himself, raising his eyes to the middle-distance and then on again, up to the canyon ridge in the distance. _I always do, don’t I?_   
But this time? This time he wasn’t so sure he wanted to. 


End file.
